When Michael Nesmith left us, it was a gut punch and a reminder that Peter Tork and Davy Jones are gone as well. For a large segment of people born in the fifties and sixties (roughly), the Monkees were a big deal. Whether you loved them, hated them or fell in the middle somewhere, you couldn’t ignore them. They had a slew of hit records, a popular TV show and a team of topnotch marketing professionals behind them, so their songs and images were ubiquitous for a few years in the mid-sixties. The media at the time was abuzz with stories, opinions and speculation about every aspect of their existence. I remember walking to school and hearing girls talk about which one they wanted to marry. Micky Dolenz was the most desirable among the girls I knew.  Perhaps the most significant indicator of their status, however, is the fact that they were one of a tiny minority of artists that were deemed worthy of having their unique essence pirated, packaged and peddled to an unsuspecting public. There were bogus Beatles records galore, but the Stones, the Who, the Kinks and the vast majority of other major acts never got this LP lookalike treatment, that I know of. An unwary shopper in 1964, seeing “Beetle Beat,” “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “from Liverpool,” and a quartet of goofy mop-topped musicians on a record jacket could be excused for thinking they were looking at a Beatles album. By 1967, it’s likely the record buying public were a bit more street savvy, but that didn’t stop the unscrupulous from trying to trick folks into buying their third-rate product.    

Wyncote, a budget subsidiary of Cameo-Parkway, released a handful of zany knockoff records in the mid-sixties designed to fool the parents of teens who begged for music by artists they heard on the radio. Other labels were up to the same shameful shenanigans. “Mom! I asked for the Beatles. This is the Beagles!” Wyncote also put out legitimate releases by Cameo-Parkway artists, but it’s the deceptive schlock that is most avidly collected all these years later. The label’s first such release was “Beatle Mania! In the USA,” credited to the Liverpools. It contains four Lennon & McCartney remakes and six songs written by Cameo-Parkway songwriters, who possibly thought the songs might appeal to Beatles fans. It came packaged in at least two slightly different covers. The next oddball offering was, “A Hard Day’s Night,” by the Four Chipmunks, later dubbed the Wyncote Squirrels (imagine getting a cease and desist letter from the “real” Chipmunks!). The disc sports five Beatles songs, none from the “Beatle Mania!” record, and five of the six Cameo-Parkway written tunes that were used on the “Beatle Mania” record, all given the studio vocal wizardry that made stars of Simon, Theodore and Alvin. The Liverpools, actually the Dovells of “Bristol Stomp” fame, according to several online sources (Amazon and Discogs, among others), followed up their previous album with, “The Hit Sounds from England.” Wyncote was probably catching too much heat from Brian Epstein and Ross Bagdasarian (David Seville) to use any clever allusions to the Animals, the Zombies, the Searchers or Gerry and the Pacemakers, so those bands’ current top of the charts song titles were used as the come on instead. One song from each of the four powerhouse recording giants appears along with the same six tired inhouse songs from the first Liverpools album. Talk about CHEAP!

At some point, Wyncote turned its attention to U. S. product (not that any Brits or furry parkland creatures were ever involved), sort of. Herb Alpert enjoyed tremendous success with three Latin flavored acts, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, which he created and fronted; the Baja Marimba Band, which he formed around Julius Wechter; and Brasil ’66, which he discovered, and poached Lani Hall from as his longtime wife. All three acts were mainstays on Herb’s (with partner Jerry Moss) A&M Records label and enjoyed much fanfare and good fortune. Wyncote saw dollar signs and attempted to cash in with groups they named the Mexican Brass, the Mexicani Marimba Band, and Brazilia ’67. None set the world on fire, but they probably fooled enough record buyers to pay the label’s electricity bill for a few months. The masterminds at Wyncote also managed to squeeze in a Christmas album amid all the faux south of the border releases. “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” was originally attributed to the Chipmunks, but on later pressings the band was rechristened the Beavers. The label honchos apparently didn’t learn their lesson the first time.

Wyncote called it quits shortly thereafter, but not before releasing two more rip-off platters, “Monkey Business” and “Monkeys A-Go-Go.” They are the only two ersatz Monkees albums I am aware of. These albums are worth picking up if you ever find them for less than about twenty bucks... if you are a collector of music from that era and have an appreciation for silly hucksterism, that is. To be honest, I am rather fond of the music as well as the kitsch factor. As can be expected with these cash-in scenarios, there is absolutely no information to be gleaned from the sleeve or the labels on the vinyl. It makes sense not wanting your name associated with something that was sure to rankle some very powerful people in the entertainment industry, but what if there had been a surprise hit on one of these records? Never mind, they’d be more likely to be hit by lightning while simultaneously being attacked by a shark than to have that happen. The music isn’t life changing, mind you, but the songs are catchy enough, the musicianship is spot on, the vocals and harmonies are way more than adequate and no tune sounds like it would have brought down the overall quality of a Monkees album, if it had been included, with one of the pre-fab four singing it. The psyche guitar is especially tasty. Extra credit is due to the genius who thought of taking titles from the first two Monkees records, making clever changes and then writing songs based on the new titles. I only refer to the band as the Chimps because they do a song called, “The Chimps Theme,” ala, “(Theme from) The Monkees.” My favorite inversion is, “Papa’s Blue Jeans,” reworked from “Papa Gene’s Blues,” but honorable mention goes to, “Sunday’s Kid,” “Sally Sally,” “Just Keep Dancin’” and “Your Uncle Grizzly.” 

The versions of “I’m a Believer,” “Last Train to Clarksville,” “A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You” and “The Girl I knew Somewhere” are as good as any cover songs from other projects along these lines, but that isn’t so surprising when you consider they had the original blueprint to mimic. The lead singer does a passable impersonation of Micky, especially on “I’m a Believer,” and the harmonies sound to me like those I’m used to hearing from the real deal. Most of the filler material, the sixteen tracks you’d have no reason to know unless you picked up one or both of these phonies, is made up of happy-go-lucky, blues-based pop songs with vocals that are in Micky’s general register without being so derivative that they sound forced. “The Week We Fell in Love” has a classic three chord followed by jangly guitar intro, and the music reminds me a little of “Sometime in the Morning.” As is the case with several of the other non-Monkees songs here, the tune is upbeat, but there are wistful undercurrents provided by occasional minor key moments. “Your Uncle Grizzly” has a Dylanesque stream of nonsense vibe throughout. Think “Maggie’s Farm” with bears instead of goats. “Believe My Cry” is a weepy folk number that sounds a little like something Buffalo Springfield might have done. My favorite two tracks are the ones that stray the farthest from the pop blues mold. “The Chimps Theme” is good-time piano/harpsichord driven fun that makes me think of the lighter side of either Harry Nilsson or the Left Banke. The one song that is truly a gem, though, is “5th Class Mail.” It starts out with vocals barely audible under an oppressive minor key organ dirge. This is followed by an extended psychedelic freak-out with a propulsive understated beat, manic guitar noodling, crazed laughter, caustic caterwaul, meandering keyboard fluff and studio gimmickry out the wazoo. The topper is the inclusion of a smattering of chipmunk chatter that closes out the mind muck portion. It’s a subtle reminder that your contact high was supplied by people who had no qualms about making children and their hapless parents curse their shoddy label’s existence.     

The online buzz (Discogs and rateyourmusic, etc.) is that a real Cameo-Parkway band was brought in to do the slick Monkees covers and then were allowed to fill up the bulk of each album with their own original material. Per the fine folks at BadCatRecords, the Edison Electric Band started in ’66 in the Philadelphia area and recorded a single on the Cameo-Parkway label in ’67. “Methyl Ethyl” is a cool old-timey song that is chock full of hooks and charm. “The Name of the Game” is a fuzzy soul raver with laid back vocals and a wild psyche lead break. Although the single didn’t go anywhere, the band was hired to do “Monkey Business” and “Monkeys A-Go-Go.” It totally makes sense to me after listening to their single. Both songs would have been at home on the Chimps outings. Thankfully for them, the band managed to put out one album under their own name in ’70, “Bless You, Dr. Woodward,” on Cotillion. The album is a good blues rock groover with some nice flashes of psychedelia, especially on the last two songs. “Smokehouse” is a standout track, probably because the band channeled the spirit of Captain Beefheart throughout. Most of the musicians continued in the business after they broke up and added their individual talents to work by Bonnie Raitt, Van Morrison, the Chambers Brothers and others. It must have been a total embarrassment to be associated with these deceitful discs way back when, but I’m glad the band agreed to Monkee around… and did such a great job of it.

Edwin Letcher 1/21/2022